


Routine

by PrincessLunaLover



Category: Batman v Superman, DCCU - Fandom, DCEU
Genre: Age Difference, Bruce is also a self-hating bisexual, Bruce is severely fucked up, Clark is also 23 instead of 33 here, Lots of Angst, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, sex as coping, so warning: some internalized homophobia and gender roles from bruce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 10:17:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6850747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessLunaLover/pseuds/PrincessLunaLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't talk about it, but they both know. Fingers grapple for purchase, toes curl, and he squeezes himself down, trying to keep Clark there. Trying to keep Clark with him. It's the only way he can express himself. Express his fear and self-loathing and confusion and despair. And most of all, love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Routine

Bruce Wayne comes home, discarding the heavy coat, tossing it aside as he walks into the manor. Built, after the Wayne Manor crumbled to ruin, after his parents left him. After he ran away like the coward he was, burning bridges and starting anew like he always did. 

Always running away, fighting whomever wanted to help him, pushing them out of his life.

He pauses.

The Batman calls him, but he doesn't answer. He promised. After that kick to the spine, he had to stop for a week. But he couldn't be here. Not in this house. It was stifling, and he was itching to leave, itching to move, and he had to get out, or at the very least do _something_ to get memories out of his head and this _darkness_ boiling under his skin out, this _evil_ that had lead him to almost kill an innocent man and lead others to death and _lead a boy into a march to his grave--_

He stands. 6'5", a little shorter than his new companions in arms. The alien and Amazon both stand at 6'8", and laugh about it frequently. He scowls, grumbling and pouting and crossing his arms, but he appreciates it.

He _craves_ it.

Even if he didn't hear the stove being switched on, and the gentle sizzle of bacon and eggs (really, farmboy? Serving a rich man fair food? It was adorable) he could have guessed where the other was. Where the boy was. He was _barely_ the age that a man would graduate college, and here he was, with an old man hitting his fifties and _living_ with him and--

He couldn't think about that.

It made him sick, when he thought about it. What he did. What he wanted. This was another man, another man half his age, but every single night, without fail, he'd spread his scarred-up thighs and let the farmboy push himself inside him, deeper and deeper, spearing Bruce on his  body and hollowing the man out from all of his hatred and anger and bitterness and brokenness and fill him with sunshine and Bruce would--

He could feel his body reacting to the thoughts, and he was feeling disgusted again. At himself. He was using the boy, using him for his light and warmth and for what? So Superman could bury another person in a few years? So he'd be stuck with a bitter and broken and sick old man, when he should have married that girl who'd saved him from Bruce when Bruce tried to kill him--

But God, was Superman--Clark--beautiful. So heartbreakingly beautiful. Even to a man like him.

He leans his forehead against the back of the man, as Clark turns off the stove, setting the food aside and turning around to embrace the man. And Bruce feels like screaming, like throwing things and hitting him and throwing every single goddamm horrible thought he's ever had, because he should drive Clark away from an infection like him, but he doesn't. All he can do is accept it, legs like jelly against the sheer kindness being offered, and his chest seizes, and he hasn't cried since he was twenty-five, but God if Clark couldn't bring that out in him.

"Want something to eat?" And the implication is clear. Bruce couldn't have said no, not if his life depended on it. Clark made him feel beautiful, and the boy couldn't have known that, not with how much his very core shone, but he nodded, playboy smirk in place.

The food put in the microwave for later, he's taken by his wrist and pulled up like a woman ("I can walk, farmboy!") and taken to the bedroom, and he breaks free, laying down on the bed, legs falling apart on instinct.

It should have been disgusting. He should have been disgusting. But all he can do is shut his eyes as he's handled like a woman, a dark flush coloring his cheeks while a finger is inside him, and he can't help the warmth beneath his tailbone and the coiling in his gut as his cock swells, and he loves it, and he loves his farmboy and he loves being loved and he loves being wanted, no matter how much he won't accept it.

No matter how much he doesn't deserve it.

Clark always takes care to play with his prostate, making sure Bruce felt pleasure to ease his entrance, and Bruce's fingers curled into the sheets as whimpers escaped that he didn't even know he could make. His back arches, and the three fingers alone could have done it, but his legs are pushed back as he's exposed, and then a man is inside him, and a man that could crush him at that, but all he can do is eagerly push back. 

Clark could have burned away everything inside Bruce, for all the man knew, every time. He keeps going and going, deeper and deeper, carving a place for himself inside the man, spreading Bruce open, and Bruce let it happen. He presses down, wanting it all. Wanting Clark. Wanting his light and wanting his kindness and just...god, just wanting _him_. Saving kittens out of trees and baking pies and smiling so brightly that it was heartbreaking, every time. 

He even looked beautiful in a grave.

Bruce pushed him back, a little, climbing into his lap and putting his legs around the thighs, raising himself up and thrusting onto the man's cock himself. Fucking himself as deep as he could, almost possessive.

Everything wrong with him, everything he's done, he fucks it away.

Arms around the man's neck, he finds escape.

Pleasure burns and he climaxes, spilling over the man's abdomen, but he doesn't stop. Not when the alien cums inside him (he's dripping alien seed, feels it seeping from his hole, and somehow that doesn't disgust him) and not when he's so spent he only dry orgasms. Instead, shivering with over-stimulation, he lets himself be fucked one last time, and he lays there, shaking, used.

Clean.

He's covered in red cloth, taken back downstairs, and he lets himself be fed dinner, because Clark always insists, even when he protests. And when he's showering with the man, he clings to his chest, face against that thick neck.

Clark hums to him.

When he sleeps--when the alien sleeps--is the only time he really takes off the mask.

"I love you, Clark."

He couldn't have known, even as the world's greatest detective, that Clark heard him every time.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't intend for it to be angsty but it happened.
> 
> I'll write one with just plain smut I promise.


End file.
